


I hope you know that you were worth it all along.

by dayneschiele



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Breakup AU, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Chicago AU, Heartbreak, M/M, based off of the song chicago by highly suspect, best read while/after/before listening to the song, chris is the bassist, definite misuse of japanese, highly suspect au, i hate myself??, im sorry i did the best i could, may end up making this a two-shot??, otabek is the drummer, sad viktor, seriously do yourself a favor and listen to it, viktor is the lead singer of a band, with the song Little One as inspo?, you guys are going to burn my house down, yuri plisetsky is basically a groupie lmao, yuuri is a choreographer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-17 05:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11844762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayneschiele/pseuds/dayneschiele
Summary: “Yuuri,” the younger of the pair supplied, and he offered something of an awed smile.Viktor smirked, bringing their joined hands up to press his lips against the back of Yuuri’s palm. He rather enjoyed the rosy heat the movement brought to the other’s cheeks, and the way he let his fingers linger against Viktor’s own for a moment too long before realization struck and he retracted immediately. He was beautiful. “Would you like to come with me to a show tonight, Yuuri?”





	I hope you know that you were worth it all along.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, no one asked for this. Highly Suspect makes me emotional. I’m still decently new to AO3 and the YOI fandom (or at least I was when I started writing this lol), so you guys have yet to have a taste of me being the Actual Worst and only writing fics that are mean and rude. 
> 
> But I have an actual romance fic up on this site??? Me trying to pry romance out of my fingers is like trying to fish a needle out of a black hole. Surprisingly, I haven’t killed anyone yet though?? Three cheers for self control.

* * *

  _Baby, I met you in downtown Chicago_

* * *

 

The soft, warm breath of summer coiled around bared flesh, the temperature just barely approaching hot without being insufferable. It was nice—much more tolerable than the suffocating heat of Arizona he’d experienced a handful of days prior, and he found himself pondering why anyone would choose to live in that climate regardless of how beautiful the state claimed itself to be. Perhaps he might have had a better time had he not been wrapped up in the center of Phoenix, surrounded by buildings and lights the same as all the other big cities in America. Comical, really, because he was perfectly content being enveloped in cityscape now that the temperature was something more tolerable.

But he’d been a bit disappointed that he’d missed out on the critically acclaimed landscape of the previous state, even if he’d known there wouldn’t be time to see much of anything while touring. Perhaps he could go back in the spring once the tour was over, and once he could step outside without absolutely melting. It was a nice thought, something to keep him distracted from the experience he felt he lost by being cooped up in a tour bus for hours on end between cities he would only visit for a day or two.

 _‘Oh, but this is an experience all its own,’_ the band’s bassist would assure, and he would do his best to agree despite the fact that he felt he was utterly lacking, _‘we have a career that we love. How many people do you know that can say that?’_

Music. He loved music of all varieties, but something about the latest album his band put out hadn’t hit the mark for him. It was adored by many who appreciated the rock era of the nineties, polished up with a newer flare, and many had claimed to have been moved or that it had evoked strong emotions. But the emotions weren’t his own—they felt so distant, even when he’d been writing, because his manager had strongly advised against creating too much of a personal connection with any of his songs.

He sighed, pale fingers sifting through neatly styled bangs as he stared out over the canal breaking through heaps of concrete. This was one of the images he’d found while searching for places to sight-see, going against everyone’s wishes of resting in his hotel room until the show that evening in favor of clearing his head. The band was still small enough to play little dive bar venues and nightclubs, which Viktor had decided was a good thing. Their songs had been reaching high places on the charts recently, two of them making the radio and their first official studio album was currently nominated for a Grammy. As exciting and as flattering as their recent spike in popularity had been, he found himself drawn to the souls surrounding the smaller crowds; it was more personal this way, more interactive, and it gave him a chance to _see_ the faces affected by the poetry of their songs.

It made him feel a bit selfish for wanting to write songs that were more personal, and for not being overly enthusiastic about their latest album. Their music made other people _feel_ things, wasn’t that supposed to be enough?

He needed a coffee; something strong and black with a double shot of espresso. And perhaps a cigarette, though he’d been trying to kick the habit as of late. His younger cousin had forced ridiculous documentaries on him, which went into great length about the health issues associated with smoking, after he’d done something the teen had deemed particularly embarrassing. The blackened lungs had really gotten to him, and so he’d promptly thrown out what remained of his pack at the next gas station the bus pulled into…

Only to bum half of Chris’s pack throughout the course of the next few hours, and then to buy a shiny new pack of his own the next time they stopped. He considered that trying.

Just thinking about it had him absently digging into the pocket of his jeans, fingers pulling one of the chemical soaked tubes free to place it between newly dried lips. His lighter was the next to come; some cheap plastic thing he’d acquired from somewhere unbeknownst to him, and he cupped a hand to deter the light breeze from blowing out the flame. He inhaled as he lit it, watching the alabaster tip glow red and slipping the lighter and pack back into his pocket. Calm, and yet utterly melancholy.

Perhaps he should go to a park. There had to be a smaller place around here somewhere to sit and enjoy the sparse winds rolling through. He fished into his pocket again, this time acquiring his phone in order to look up nearby attractions. There were a few different parks, though from the pictures, one looked entirely too big for what he currently wanted to accomplish and the other seemed to be more concrete than grass. He selected the second park, the only one of the three that looked promising, and allowed his phone to guide him in the correct direction.

The walk was nothing to brag about; a few miles of faceless bystanders and the intermittent pause to assess a particularly interesting building. His cigarette was finished off rather quickly given that he had little else to captivate him at the moment, the filter disposed of in a trash can several minutes prior. The nicotine staved off his initial desire for caffeine, which was fine. He should probably wait to caffeinate until closer to the show, anyway.

The park he ventured to was smaller than expected, but it had stretches of grass and held the attention of very few. It was nice, he decided, and so he situated himself against the base of a tree and pulled out his headphones. He knew he should probably rehearse the set list, but he had absolutely no desire to do so. He knew his songs.

Instead, he scrolled through his music library until he fell on an old favorite, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the tree. A sigh escaped him, eyes fluttering back open to take a look around the area. There was another person, sitting cross-legged with a notepad atop his legs and the end of a pen between his lips. Dark brows were drawn in concentration, blue-rimmed glasses threatening to slip down his nose as he squinted at the paper. He appeared to have headphones in as well, and Viktor wondered what he was listening to.

He couldn’t help but watch as the other took the pen from his mouth, wetting his lips with a quick swipe of the tongue and running a frustrated hand through pitch hair. He crossed out two lines on the page, shifting a bit as if that would solve whatever problem he was currently mulling over.

Viktor _would_ have gone back to minding his own business, he was sure of it, if the other hadn’t so suddenly sprung to life with a groundbreaking epiphany. He was a bit shocked to see him throw the notepad and pen down on the ground and hoist himself onto his feet. After a moment of mental rehearsal and some animated fingers bouncing back and forth as if to signify movement, he settled himself into a pose and started to dance.

His movements were fluid and calm, a captivating display of grace and beauty. His arms told a tale of their own; loss and longing, the story of misaligned lovers. The shift into a turn, something simple as a result of the grass, was absolutely seamless. Viktor felt like he was watching music come to life, like there were lyrics pouring from the tips of his fingers out into open air. He took out his headphones, allowing the sight to inspire new melodies. Just after the turn, the tone seemed to shift into something more passionate. The man’s movements were swifter, sharper, more erotic. Perhaps the beginning of a new romance, or the rekindling of an old one.

He’d always loved to watch others dance, as it was something he’d never really learned how to do. He could dance his way around a club well enough, but the performing arts were far out of his realm of comfort. He allowed his eyes to drink in beautiful movements, completely ensnared by the thought that a human body could move in such distinguished ways.

And all at once, the man stopped. He appeared frustrated, pulling his fingers down his face as he sorted choreography around in his head. Viktor was a bit bemused, finding that the other was making faces that were entirely too self-critical for the performance he’d just supplied. He found himself wishing he’d brought his own pen and paper in order to jot down fragments of lyrics that were starting to come together in his mind. Perhaps he could write them in the notes on his phone instead. That body, the way that it moved, was something that he could watch all day.

Except he’d already been caught, if the flustered expression the other was now adorning was anything to go by. The tint of rose lining his cheeks didn’t appear to be the fault of the sun, and it was absolutely adorable. Viktor smiled despite his own faint smattering of pink, waving at the other as if he had absolutely no shame for being caught red handed.

“Sorry for staring,” he called in place of a greeting, accented words dusted in confectionery before they ever rolled out of his mouth, “but your dancing is beautiful.”

If possible, the other flushed harder. He had yet to move, his muscles appearing taut beneath the thin black fabric of his shirt. Viktor wondered if he had intruded upon something personal, and that’s why the man appeared so tense. Should he have said nothing? He watched the other swallow, his mouth closing and opening again as he figured out what to fire back.

“Um, thanks.” He managed to breathe, some form of reverence unabashed in syrup-dressed citrine as he found the will to move again. He leaned down to pick up his notebook and pen, shuffling awkwardly between his feet as though he wasn’t sure whether it would be rude to leave so suddenly.

“Oh? I didn’t make you uncomfortable, did I?” Viktor asked, sensing the other’s obvious discomfort at the attention. He shouldn’t have stared, it was probably rude. He attempted not to let his disappointment show on his face, and did a poor job of it if the way the other bit his lip guiltily was any indication. “I can leave, if you want.”

“No, no!” The man blurted out, lifting his hands in a motion similar to surrender. “I mean, you didn’t make me uncomfortable. I’m just…”

Viktor smiled, pulling his headphones from the device resting on his leg and folding them back up to shove in his pocket. He stood up, sheathing his cellular a moment later before walking over to offer the other a hand in greeting. “No need to explain yourself to me,” he assured as the man accepted his handshake. “I’m Viktor.”

“Yuuri,” the younger of the pair supplied, and he offered something of an awed smile.

Viktor smirked, bringing their joined hands up to press his lips against the back of Yuuri’s palm. He rather enjoyed the rosy heat the movement brought to the other’s cheeks, and the way he let his fingers linger against Viktor’s own for a moment too long before realization struck and he retracted immediately. He was beautiful. “Would you like to come with me to a show tonight, Yuuri?”

 

* * *

_But I, I had to drive away the very next day_

* * *

 

The alarm on Viktor’s phone blared, rousing him from his sleep with an agitated grunt. Heavy lids peeled back to reveal the momentarily disorienting view of a hotel room. He lifted his head, silver falling like water over the majority of his face while he fumbled to turn off the incessant squealing that echoed through the halls of his ears. The stale taste of house whiskey was enough reassurance that he’d had entirely too much to drink the night before, the beginnings of a headache tugging at his brain as he made a move to roll over.

His arm fell onto a solid chest, which was enough to startle him completely awake. He pushed himself up to sit, palms coming up to rub the bleariness from his eyes so that he could actually see the person in his bed. Dark hair was mostly swept back from his forehead, eyes closed in his peaceful sleep even as his mouth remained parted slightly. His glasses were missing from his visage, instead folded neatly on the nightstand to his right. It was a wonder that the screeching alarm hadn’t seemed to faze him at all. Viktor felt his chest tighten, managing a small smile as the events of the night returned to him.

Yuuri had arrived at the dive bar early enough for Viktor to thank him for coming out and buy him a drink. They shared a few peaceful moments of pleasant conversation before Chris came to collect him, offering Yuuri a warm hello and a cheeky grin. To his merit, Yuuri didn’t look all that surprised when Viktor slipped away to help with show prep. Retrospectively, Viktor now knew that the other had been expecting as much.

It wasn’t until the first melancholic strums of guitar began ringing through the venue and Yuuri, who managed to situate himself front and center, lit up with recognition, that Viktor started to put together that Yuuri had known precisely who Viktor was from the first moment they’d met. He grinned, lips close enough that they almost graced the metallic mesh of the microphone, as the first lyrics came flowing in something akin to pained gasps. His eyes hadn’t been able to leave Yuuri as he caught his own words being mouthed back to him. It breathed something like life into a shared pair of lungs, and he pulled back with a smirk between verses.

This voice, so raspy and raw and abrasive, was something only adorned when singing, and it contrasted greatly with his usual fluid manner of speaking. The first song, at its surface, was a tale of frightening intoxication, of being trapped in a painful high that he wanted nothing more than to come down from. It was one of their more popular songs, voiced with such conviction that many were ensnared by the emotions translated so brashly and so _human_.

This song was a push and a pull, giving with soft peels of anxiety and apprehension only to take again with rough agitation. The conclusion was concrete, whispering death in all the right notes, and the song swiftly shifted into another fan favorite from their only official studio album. The crowd was receptive, and the band was clearly feeding off of the energy reverberating from the walls and amplifying. It was a good choice to open with these two—the patrons were warming up, singing along and beginning to become more active in their movements.

As for Yuuri, he’d yet to miss a single line, and he moved in a way that made it seem that the music on stage was pouring directly from his body instead. Viktor was fully aware that he was a complete goner.

The tune was another with a more sinister vibe, following the mended heart of a man abandoned by his mother. It was denial and anger, poorly concealed hatred spat from the mouth of a man who appeared nothing short of glowing with neon lights dancing across marble skin. He could feel the sweat forming at his brow and above his lip, tongue swiping at it absently as his knees bent and he reeled back to belt out another line of anguish that wasn’t his own.

But in this moment, he couldn’t find the will to be off-put by emotions he didn’t feel, because his sights were set on the eyes of a man drinking him in like rich poison. He hadn’t felt so good about singing since the band rolled into a studio to record their EP, and he certainly hadn’t felt so lively on stage since they found their roots in the form of singing covers. This feeling, this adrenaline overwhelming him, it was absolutely maddening, and he was lapping up every moment.

He found his muse.

As the song came to a close, he reached for the beer set atop a barstool at the edge of the stage. He heard Chris address the crowd maxing out the venue and pouring out into the street, who responded with eager cheers and whoops of excitement. Viktor rounded back to Chris, the bassist, and Otabek, the drummer, to put in a song request of his own. They never really followed their set list anyway, and his bandmates seemed excited about the switch in pace.

“We’re going with something a little less known for this next one,” Viktor all but purred, and still his gaze had trouble finding anyone in the crowd but Yuuri to linger on. He was met with an eager response, and a grin that might have appeared licentious if he hadn’t known better. “I hope that’s alright.”

The night carried on with the same pattern; all hidden conversations and genuine fun, and Viktor found himself relishing in the carefree atmosphere. They, of course, received the most cheers from the crowd when the first notes of their most popular song—the one that was on every rock radio station from one side of the country to the next—began to play. It was by no means unexpected, and for once, it wasn’t unwelcome either.

They stuck around for drinks and chatter after clearing the stage of their equipment, thanking the owner of the bar for having them even as she shook her head and replied that it was an honor. The bartenders surely appreciated the comments made on stage reminding the patrons to tip, making sure that much was expressed when the trio found their way to the bar. Viktor was beyond relieved to see that Yuuri had hung around to continue their earlier conversation, and he took it in stride when they were interrupted by those eager to get in a word of praise about the show.

It was several drinks later that Viktor finally asked Yuuri if he wanted to slip out to somewhere a bit less raucous. Things had progressed naturally from there; skimmed touches became needy grabs, words faded into whispers against lips and flesh, and each party voiced their praises in the form of backs slammed against hotel walls and hips grinding against hips.

About the time clothes started falling off, however, Viktor allowed his head to fall against Yuuri’s collarbone with a breathless laugh. They were both drunk, and as blatant as his need was through the strain of his jeans, it was probably best that they collect themselves.

They’d fallen into bed not long after, each with a glass of water and a want all but forgotten.

That left him in his current position, chest bared and with sheets pooled around his waist, while the other slept soundly in the room he’d booked for Viktor’s show. As much as it pained him, he really did need to get going if he wanted to avoid an angry call from his manager demanding to know just where the hell he was when they had to be driving off to New York in a matter of hours. He didn’t bother to stifle his yawn, stretching with his arms above his head before he leaned to press a chaste kiss to Yuuri’s temple.

His legs emerged from beneath the blanket, still jean-clad as a vivid reminder of how promptly he’d passed out once the passion was set on the back burner. He collected his phone, checking his pocket to make sure his wallet and room key were very much still present. He could use a smoke, but he should probably busy himself with locating his shirt first. Socked feet hit hardwood, and he grunted at the stiffness in his legs once he rose to his full height. His shirt lay in a pool of white by the door. They really hadn’t managed to make it very far, had they?

There was a notepad on the nightstand, detailing the name of the chain hotel and its other nearby locations at the top. As quietly as possible, he slid out a drawer in search of a pen. There happened to be one beside a Bible, which he tried not to think too much about as he retrieved the object of his desire. After some debate about what to write, he jotted down a sequence of numbers and his name, followed by a lyric from a song he had yet to complete.

_‘Was it real or just a dream?’_

He slipped the note into place where his body had been, padding over to dress himself fully before slipping out with a faint ‘ _click_ ’.

He missed the way wet molasses snapped open as soon as the door closed, and the breathy sigh that followed when fingertips lifted to a forehead.

The walk back to his hotel was surprisingly short with thoughts of soft lips and eager hands tugging at his shirt collar, cigarette in hand only suffering a few drags while the rest of it ultimately burned to ash. He packed up in something of a haze, mind captivated by lyrics of an entirely new tone.

He met Chris, Otabek, and Yuri in the hotel lobby, the rolling wheels of his suitcase alerting them of his presence. The youngest of the bunch appeared to be in a particularly foul mood, likely from being roused well before noon, and he was regarded with a sneer.

“Look who decided to show up.” Yuri grunted, arms crossed over his chest as he scowled beyond his hood. Blonde hair appeared particularly disheveled, making him resemble more of an angry kitten than anything truly menacing.

“I’m not even late this time.” Viktor whined hoarsely, hotel key held at the ready to make his check out process go by more smoothly. Oh, his voice sounded awful.

“I’m surprised you actually made it.” Chris cooed, and Viktor decided it was still too early for such a suggestive tone to be coupled with a not-so-coy grin. “You look tired. Rough night?”

Yuri made a show of gagging, his noises of revulsion eliciting a snort from the eldest. Otabek appeared as stoic as usual, but Viktor didn’t miss the way his hand slipped from the pocket of his leather jacket to rest on Yuri’s lower back. The youngest calmed considerably, seeming to shrink even further into his hoodie as if that would hide the rose of heat rising beneath pale skin.

“Not as rough as you might think.” His voice certainly sounded like he’d had more than a little fun the night before, but that was mostly a product of having screamed on stage during the show with only alcohol as vocal lubricant.

Chris opened his mouth to say something that was likely not family friendly, but managed to cut himself off upon catching sight of Yakov exiting the bathroom. His fist rose to cover his mouth, clearing his throat and alerting Viktor to the newcomer with a bounce of eyebrows. The other turned, seeming to get the hint, and suddenly wished he would have brought a bottle of water to ease his dry throat. There was no way Yakov _wouldn’t_ yell at him if he heard him speak right now.

“ _Vitya_ ,” Yakov greeted, and Viktor knew that hoping not to be admonished was a lost cause. “You disappeared last night without saying goodbye to the owner and staff. You realize this is embarrassing for me, _da_?”

Viktor nodded rather than fire back with the usual wit that had his manager grinding his teeth in irritation. The last thing he needed was to croak out a response and earn himself an even longer lecture. He had to sing two nights from then anyhow, so it was probably best if he avoided conversations that would make him raise his voice. That thought alone was painful enough. Anyone who knew Viktor knew he _loved_ to talk—well, more like he loved to whine, but the notion still stood.

To his dismay, Yakov’s eyes narrowed into splintering shards of crystal. Viktor smiled brightly, doing his best to appear nonchalant. It only seemed to poke the bear, unfortunately. “Vitya,” Yakov warned, and it was the same pattern he used every time he was gearing up to explode. “We need to talk about your vocals.”

Viktor knew he was being baited to speak, but he bit anyway. “My vocals? We sounded great last night.”

Yakov sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “You know better than to strain your voice like that when you’re touring. You’re supposed to sing again in two days, how can you perform when you sound like you’ve been swallowing gravel?”

They both pointedly ignored Chris’s sly comment of, ‘ _Swallowing something for sure, but I wouldn’t necessarily compare it to gravel.’_

“I was just having some fun with the show. It was a good crowd.” Viktor replied defensively, arms crossing over his chest. “I’ll be fine by New York.”

Yakov grunted, muttering, “You had better be,” before grabbing his suitcase and hauling it in the direction of the door.

The group didn’t hesitate to follow, Viktor grumbling expletives under his breath in Russian that made Yuri snort in amusement. If Yakov heard, he didn’t make any move to respond. That much, at least, was a relief. Viktor held up the back as the group moved in an odd formation towards the doors to the lobby, eventually gracing the light of the morning and heading in the direction of the dreaded tour bus.

Usually Viktor enjoyed boarding; it meant he was moving on to another location to drink in the atmosphere of a different city. He liked to watch the windows as they passed ever-changing landscape and mark the places he might like to revisit, mentally pinning signs that boasted attractions left far behind. But now, he couldn’t help but feel that he was being made to leave Chicago prematurely.

He very much would have liked to experience waking up next to Yuuri—would they have shared sweet kisses and tender words over breakfast, or would he have been kicked out the moment Yuuri set eyes on him? He was fairly certain that the answer lay in whether or not he received an answer to his written call.

He hauled his suitcase onto the bus and threw it onto one of the beds in the back. He wasn’t interested in unpacking it now and replacing it with clean clothing. Instead, he busied himself with sinking into the couch next to Christophe while Yakov cranked the engine. While it hadn’t been uncomfortably hot outside, it was rather stuffy in the bus, and he hoped that the air conditioning would kick in before he had time to sweat through his clothing.

Yuri chucked a bottle at him, which he might have caught had he any semblance of instinct pertaining to deflecting projectiles. The object, which had nailed him directly in the chest, revealed itself to be lemon tea, premade with honey and poured into a bottle that once had water in it (their refrigerator was full of them because Yakov didn’t trust Viktor’s ability to be responsible for a single moment). Ah, yes—something to soothe his current vocal predicament. “ _Wow_. Thank you, Yura.” He chirped, internalizing a grimace at the hoarseness still making itself present.

“Yeah, yeah.” Yuri muttered, petulantly adding, “Rather not listen to Yakov bitch at you later because _you_ can’t take care of yourself.”

Viktor placed a hand on his chest in mock offense, defending himself with, “I take plenty good care of myself,” before promptly doubling over with a chain of coughs. Damn, maybe he _had_ overdone it. Ah well, it was done in the name of putting on a good show, and he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—take it back now.

Yuri eyed him skeptically, though it came off more as a glare. He plopped down next to Otabek just as Yakov started to pull out of the parking lot. “Leave it to you to ruin your next show for some half-wit who actually enjoys listening to you ‘sing’.” The air quotes were a bit much, if you asked Viktor, especially considering the fact that he’d caught Yuri singing the lyrics to some of their darker songs on multiple occasions. “You’re lucky Beka drowned out most of your caterwauling.”

“Yuuri’s no half-wit.” He managed to get out between gulps of tea.

Yuri leaned forward, nearly hissing as he replied, “ _What_ did you just say? It sounded like you referred to that idiot you were chatting up by _my name_.”

“Oh, _my_.” Christophe muttered beneath the hand which had come to cover his mouth, poorly concealing his amused snort.

“Oh!” Viktor grinned, eyes lighting up as if it was the first time he’d come to that conclusion. “His name is also Yuuri, but it’s pronounced a little differently. Isn’t that fun?”

“Fun?” Yuri squawked, mouth gaping while he looked between Viktor and Otabek as if his ears were deceiving him and he was expecting to be told that he was mistaken. Judging by the noncommittal shrug the other rewarded him, he was not mistaken. This was real life and Viktor was actually the stupid traitor he’d always claimed him to be.

“Yes, _fun._ Easy to remember too!” Viktor was beaming, though the look on the teen’s face was nothing short of murderous. Honestly, how so much rage could be contained within such a small body was beyond his comprehension.

“So, you never did specify what happened after you so pleasantly abandoned us at the bar last night.” Chris hummed, propping his chin up with his palm. If that was his way of diffusing the situation, it could use some tweaking.

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” Viktor drawled, choosing to ignore the fact that Yuri still looked dangerously close to opening the nearest window and shoving him out of it.

“Is that what you are now, a gentleman?” Chris snickered, earning himself a playful smack in the chest.

Viktor opened his mouth to exonerate himself from the crime of being anything but chivalrous, but a text tone brought his attention down to his pocket. He leaned back and extended his leg to more easily acquire the device, pulling it out to reveal a message on his home screen from an unknown number. He set to work punching in his passcode.

 

**From: Unknown**

_I should be the one asking you that._

 

The smile that found it’s place splitting his face in half didn’t go unnoticed by the other three. Yuuri responded after all. Maybe he wasn’t a fool to think that something could come of this.

“Oh? Is that him now?” Chris’s inquiry was rather redundant, being that they both knew that it had to be.

He let Yuri’s gagging and droning of things along the lines of, ‘ _Gross_ ,’ go without a response. Viktor saved the number to his contacts before typing out a response.

 

**To: Yuuri**

_I’m sorry for leaving so suddenly.  
_ _We have to be in New York for another show._

 

**From: Yuuri**

_I know  
_ _I mean, not that I know your tour schedule!  
_ _Not that I don’t know your tour schedule!_  
_Ugh, I’m sorry…_

 

Viktor laughed. He could practically see Yuuri’s blush through the phone, the thought of which making his chest ache in a way that felt unfamiliar. He wanted to see it again, wanted to make Yuuri flustered in person. Texting was so impersonal—he much preferred his conversations to have a less calculated element, but Yuuri made it an easy experience to enjoy if that was the only way they could interact for the time being.

 _Unless it wasn’t_.

He did his best to quiet that thought, lying to himself and saying that he knew better.

 

**To: Yuuri**

_No need for apologies  
_ _If you did happen to know my tour schedule, I’d think that was pretty cute ;)_

 

The day carried on as it usually would. Yuri and Otabek found a spot in the back on one of the twin beds to share new music they’d found, doing their best to ignore the others by pulling the folding door shut. Chris and Viktor carried on conversation as normal, pointing out things they thought were particularly remarkable outside the window between flirtatious texts being sent out to Yuuri. There were intermittent pauses in their voyage for a stretch of legs and a full tank of gas where each passenger found solace in some form of caffeine or a smoke.

At some point, Yakov pulled into the parking lot of a diner to have lunch. Viktor snapped a picture of his meal to send to Yuuri, commenting on the enigma that was American food. Yuuri responded with his own analysis of the cuisine, and Viktor learned that Yuuri was originally from Japan, as well as what his favorite food was. It was fun and light, and they were playing their own version of twenty questions that went way beyond twenty.

Yakov had threatened to leave Viktor stranded when he followed up his meal with a cigarette, complaining that he was taking entirely too long with his face shoved in his phone like it was.

It wasn’t until around midnight, newly checked into his hotel room without even having had the chance to change, that Viktor found himself with his thumb hovering over the send button. His message was already typed out, but he wasn’t sure if it would be too forward of him. Was Yuuri even free? Would he be interested if he was? Would it be selfish of Viktor to even ask?

He set the phone down on the nightstand, deciding it best to shower first while he collected his thoughts.

 

* * *

  _So I, flew your pretty ass to New York City_

* * *

 

His shower hadn’t done much to resolve his internal struggle. If anything, it had served to make him all the more apprehensive, and yet all the more wanting. He chose to follow the voice in his head that was spinning a rather convincing tale detailing that the worst answer he could receive was a, _‘No_.’ He could handle that, he supposed. What he couldn’t handle was a missed opportunity.

 

**To: Yuuri**

_What if I asked you to come to New York?_

 

He exhaled a shaky breath, tightness seizing his chest as he placed his phone back on the nightstand and dug through his suitcase for a pair of boxer briefs to sleep in. He and Chris could take the following day to explore the city a bit and have a few drinks, should his throat permit. He busied himself with thoughts of what was to come rather than counting the seconds that had passed since he sent the message.

Despite his best efforts, he glanced at his phone again. The screen was black, and he surely would have heard the device vibrate had he received a response. With a sigh, he pulled his fingers through still-damp hair. It was getting late, and he should probably be getting to bed soon. Perhaps Yuuri had already fallen asleep?

His hands made work of peeling back the comforter so that he could slide into bed, grabbing his phone to scroll through his Instagram feed until he felt sleep pulling at his lashes.

He woke the next day to the sound of someone knocking on his hotel door, groaning as he blindly threw off the covers and stumbled to his feet. He rubbed his eyes, willing for the stinging to subside before he reached the door. He had no such luck, flinching as his hand yanked at the handle and the light of the hallway struck his face. Chris was standing in his doorway, eyeing him speculatively and inviting himself inside the room. Viktor closed the door behind him with a groan, blinking a few times as some form of defense against his grogginess.

“Wow, it’s almost like you were _trying_ to get me into your room.” Chris teased, pausing briefly before taking pity on Viktor’s current state of dazed and confused and motioning to his current attire.

Viktor glanced down, noticing for the first time that he was only in his underwear. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was far too groggy to care. “Why are you here so early?” He whined, walking back over to his bed to throw himself on it rather dramatically.

“Early?” Chris asked, amused. “It’s past noon. Were you planning to sleep all day?”

Past noon? He never slept in that late. He’d always been an early riser being that he liked to hit the gym in the mornings. As if to insinuate that he didn’t believe the other’s claims, he hoisted himself into a sitting position and suspiciously snatched his phone off of the nightstand. The screen read, sure enough, that it was almost one in the afternoon, and he had two new messages from Yuuri as well as a handful of missed calls from Chris.

He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips as he slid his thumb along the screen, quickly punching in his passcode. He heard Chris huff in amusement at being ignored, but chose not to react.

 

**From: Yuuri**

_What do you mean?  
_ _I’m sorry I fell asleep last night!_

 

**To: Yuuri**

_No need to apologize :)  
_ _I meant, what if I bought you a plane ticket?_  
_Would you come to my show, Yuuri?_

 

He bit his lip, hoping that he wasn’t putting too much pressure on the other to say yes. He watched the screen light up as Yuuri started texting, only to stop and then start again moments later. He tapped the side of the phone with his thumb absently, frowning when the other stopped typing again. Staring at the device wasn’t going to get him a response any sooner, he realized, and he should probably busy himself with putting on some clothes and brushing his teeth.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Chris.” He sighed, standing up with a stretch and leaving his phone on the bed.

Chris smirked. “It’s quite alright, _cheri._ ”

Viktor rummaged through his suitcase, pulling out an acid wash button down and a worn pair of black jeans. He hoped for another cool day like the last—much hotter and he might be inclined to peruse the mall rather than walk the city, which was almost never a good idea. Yakov might actually strangle him if he tried to fit anything else onto that tour bus. The last of his souvenirs had come dangerously close to being tossed out of an open window on the highway going seventy miles per hour. 

Once he managed to dress himself and brush his teeth, he slipped his phone, wallet, and room key into his pocket and gestured for Chris to lead the way. The bassist had lived in New York City for a year or two after he first moved to the United States, and so he would be acting as Viktor’s tour guide for the evening.

Viktor felt his phone vibrate against his thigh and was quick to fish it out of his pocket.

 

**From: Yuuri**

_Yes, Daddy!_

 

Fine brows rose in surprise, a hand lifting to cover his mouth as his cheeks tinted rose. _Oh… my_. He wasn't sure exactly what he'd been expecting, but it most certainly wasn't  _that_. He was, for once, at a loss for words. That is, until three more texts flooded his screen in rapid succession. 

 

**From: Yuuri**

_Oh my god, I'm so sorry  
_ _My roommate took my phone, he's… eccentric_  
_But to answer your question, I don't think I could ask you to do that_

 

Viktor’s initial shock melted into an amused grin, and the moment he broke into poorly chained peels of laughter, Chris was peeking over his phone screen. Always so nosy.

“You're trying to fly him out?” Chris asked, thick brow arched in question. “Just how good a lay was he? I might give him _my_ number this time.” He was joking, of course, but the thought of his long time best friend trying to get into Yuuri's pants wasn't one Viktor wanted to indulge in. Quite the opposite, in fact. He'd like to never see that mental image again, thanks.

Viktor glared at him, lightly punching him in the shoulder. “I told you, it wasn't like that.” He huffed a sigh, turning his attention back to the buttons on the wall as they patiently awaited the elevator. "I don't know exactly what I'm looking for, but I know I didn't want to leave Chicago. That has to mean _something_."

It wasn't just about the music that Yuuri's body made, the lyrics that seemed to pour into Viktor's head when he was with him—he'd liked talking to Yuuri. He liked texting Yuuri and learning about his family's _onsen_ , that he was a retired dancer turned choreographer and that the band's songs influenced his creative process. He liked the overwhelmingly infatuated response he'd given to Makkachin. He liked how cute he looked when he flushed rose and averted those honey dripping eyes. He liked how genuinely  _excited_ Yuuri had gotten when he heard him sing, liked the conviction that painted his face when he sung back. He liked that he knew when to talk and when to listen. He didn't always know _what_ to say, was kind of clumsy when it came to words, but Viktor liked that too. Something about him just felt real, unlike so many he'd met that saw him as nothing more than an upcoming artist they could say they banged before his band blew up. 

Or maybe he was going crazy being cooped up on that tour bus with his bandmates, an irritable teenager, and a manager who did little more than gripe at him. Who knows.

“Oh, you actually like him.” Chris hummed, looking a bit too surprised for Viktor’s tastes. Why was that such a difficult thing to imagine? Sure, he had a habit of keeping his flings rather casual—more of a one night only kind of guy. He didn't typically _do_ the whole serious, repetitious, commitment thing. Hadn't ever found anyone interesting enough. Okay, so maybe Chris's skepticism was warranted. 

“I think that's pretty obvious.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't crazy, right? It wasn't difficult to believe he could have been cinched the moment he saw Yuuri poring over his choreography in that park, right? Yeah, sure, probably happens all the time. The only difference was that people would normally go on a few dates before buying each other plane tickets, but his life wasn't exactly ‘ _normal_ ’ by most people's standards. And hell, what was he supposed to do? Wait until he was off tour and take the very real chance that someone else might sweep Yuuri off of his perfect feet? Yeah, no. 

 

**To: Yuuri**

_Then don't ask!  
_ _I wouldn't offer if I didn't want you here_

"Don't take this the wrong way," Chris started, and Viktor was already taking it the wrong way on the basis that he'd felt compelled to preface his statement at all, "but I hope you know this is quite the bold move, Viktor. Consider how Yuuri might feel if you fly him out and then decide you're not interested."

Viktor frowned. "But I'm already interested. That's why I offered in the first place."

 

**From: Yuuri**

_Well…  
_ _Chicago was the most fun I've had in a while…_

 

**To: Yuuri**

_Is that a yes?_

 

**From: Yuuri**

_Call me crazy  
_ _But it's a yes_

 

 _Crazy, huh_? Yeah, maybe they were crazy. Viktor decided he was okay with that. For right now, they could just be  _crazy_ , and figure out all the details later. Maybe Yuuri was the same as Viktor, hesitant to commit but wanting to squeeze as much life out of this  _whatever it was_ that they had as possible. Call it a connection, call it a curiosity—he couldn't be bothered with labels. He just wanted to throw a stone into the dark and see what it struck.  

It might just turn out to be gold, after all.

 

* * *

_And I, I left you in LA_

* * *

 

Viktor sat across the table from his fiancé, doing more watching than eating at this point. Yuuri hadn't been animated lately. He was homesick, and dreadfully so. Viktor couldn't help but feel partially responsible. It had been his proposition that had them moving to California, after all.

At first, Yuuri had been incredibly anxious, but even more than that, he was excited. As a retired dancer with an impressive portfolio and as a highly revered choreographer, Los Angeles had seemed like the land of opportunity. It was his chance to expand his horizons, to work with fresh faces and climb his way to the top of the industry. But he soon came to realize that Los Angeles was also home to an absurd amount of other famous and esteemed choreographers; ones that already had a foundation in the city and a spoon driven deep into the honey pot. The competition was stiff, and he'd become discouraged rather quickly.

Not only that, but Yuuri wasn't necessarily a go-getter when it came to building friendships. The friendships he had back in Detroit were only as strong as they were because said friends had approached Yuuri first with the intent of being personal. Namely Phichit, his former roommate and competitor. Los Angeles was not home to the most approachable of people. Viktor supposed it had something to do with so many dreams being crushed and the high cost of living—he hadn't been successful in making many new friends outside of his profession either, to be completely honest. 

He watched Yuuri poke at his food absently, obsessing over something in his mind as he so frequently tended to do. He could practically hear him thinking, berating himself for whatever he thought might have gone wrong during practice or whatever prospective client he'd lost to some distinguished asshole with half the heart Yuuri had for the art. With a sigh, Viktor stabbed into a piece of dressed lettuce and shoved it into his mouth. “I'm leaving for Europe tomorrow.”

“Mm.” Was all Yuuri could manage, and even that seemed like it had taken effort.

“You could come with me, you know.” They'd had this conversation before, multiple times. He _wanted_ Yuuri to come with him, to get out of the house for more than just to work with some nameless kid who had dreams and ambitions that only reminded Yuuri of how quickly his own had been squashed. He wanted Yuuri to be there while he toured, wanted to see the bright expression he always wore when the band played, wanted to see him dance to something other than someone else's competition music. Yuuri didn't dance anymore, not unless he had to. 

Yuuri sighed, placing his fork down and propping his head up with a hand. “You know I can't.”

“Can't or won't?” And it was out of his mouth before he had a chance to swallow it down and choke on it, his own blood running cold as he patiently awaited Yuuri’s stalled answer. That was tactless and stupid. If only he could breathe those words back into his lungs with the air they passed on, pretend they'd never escaped the cage of his teeth. 

If he was expecting another angry outburst like the last few when they discussed this topic, it never came. He almost wished it had. Anything would be better than the stale hesitance, and nothing hurt worse than the way Yuuri’s voice broke as he forced out, “I won't.”

He'd prefer to have a knife shoved into his chest.

The silence that settled in was tense, and Viktor found himself suffocating in it. He didn't feel like eating, hadn't felt like it in a while. Dreadful nausea had seized his stomach some time ago and refused to relent, its fist only driving further into his core. With an exhausted sigh, he picked himself up from the table, promptly emptied his plate into the trash, and started rinsing off his dish.

“I won't keep piggybacking on your success, Viktor.” Yuuri tried, his voice so, _so_ painfully small. “I wanted to be successful too.”

Viktor's heart broke. “It's not you, Yuuri. It's this town. You know that, don't you?” He had to know that. He had to know that this town was a giant fucking soul-sucking black hole, and he had to know that moving here had been a mistake in the first place. He had to know how talented he truly was, and that talent didn't fucking matter here because  _names_ were so, so much more important. He had to know how unfair that was.

He didn't answer. Of course he didn't answer, because he didn't believe it himself. Viktor continued, “We can move to Detroit. It'll be good for you to see Phichit again. He misses you as much as you miss him.” He was hopeful—so,  _so_ agonizingly hopeful. 

And what he'd said was true. There wasn't a day that went by that Phichit didn't text Viktor to ask about Yuuri, since the latter had stopped paying any attention to his phone whatsoever. His friend was worried, and he wished he could offer something more reassuring than to say that, ' _Yuuri didn't get out of bed today_ ' or, ' _Yuuri couldn't even look at me when I told him I loved him_ '. He never should've suggested that they move to this stupid fucking city. It was all Viktor's fault that Yuuri was gluing together the shattered pieces of himself. He couldn't blame him if he harbored resentment.

“Viktor, I don't think this is working out.”

The dish slipped out of his fingers, falling to the floor from where he’d meant to transfer it from the sink to the dishwasher. Porcelain shattered against the hardwood, and it was a wonder it didn't cut open one of his bare feet. Yuuri kept his back turned, ignoring Viktor’s choked mutter of, “ _Shit_ ,” that obviously applied to more than just the broken dish.

He felt the tears slipping before he ever had a chance to bend down and scoop up the fragments of the plate, careful not to cut himself as he worked. 

“Yuuri, _please._ ” He didn't exactly know what he was asking for. Please, I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you. Please give me a chance to make things better. Please don't give up on us.

Please don't leave me.

Please.

He knew Yuuri had already made his decision. He always made these decisions without discussing it with anyone, always kept everything buried so far deep inside himself that Viktor couldn't hope to dig it out. He wondered how long ago he'd made up his mind. He wondered what he'd done wrong. If he didn't feel like he'd been gutted hollow, he might have felt some semblance bitter frustration. 

“I think I need to go home.” Yuuri pushed on, but there was no _thinking_ about it. He was telling Viktor what he was going to do.

“Why did you let it get this far?” It was a whisper, as if he didn't know whether he was talking to Yuuri or himself at this point. Viktor managed not to let loose a sob, simply seating himself on the floor beside the pile of broken porcelain. It was a good representation of himself, he mused. Everyone had always compared his complexion to that very same shade of alabaster, but he found himself feeling so agonizingly transparent. So bare, so vulnerable. “Why couldn't you talk to me?” 

Yuuri didn't respond. He just stood up, left his untouched plate on the table, and he walked to their room. The door clicked shut, leaving Viktor to shudder out a sob through the hands that hand come to press over his mouth. He was alone again, and he'd found himself to be alone more and more over the past few months. Even when Yuuri was sitting beside him, it was like he wasn't really there. _Yuuri,_ his  _Yuuri_ , hadn't been here for a while. He wouldn't talk, wouldn't touch, wouldn't dare press a gentle hand to Viktor's glass heart. He'd put so much distance between them, and the harder Viktor tried to close that distance, the wider it became.

Viktor glanced to his suitcase propped against the couch, packed and ready to fly out first thing tomorrow. A trembling exhale escaped him, his head falling back against the kitchen cabinet in defeat. He'd _known_ this was coming and yet he'd done nothing to prepare himself for it. He'd tried and tried and _tried_ some more, and here he was, a broken, sobbing mess on the hardwood floor of their stupid fucking apartment. He was paper thin, ripped to shreds, and despite every stitch of himself begging and pleading for him to take a hint, to accept the distance, to just give up, he'd found himself doing the exact opposite. 

They weren't supposed to resign to this. They weren't supposed to collapse inward and just implode. They were supposed to go out kicking and screaming—they were supposed to work through this, no matter the pain, no matter the heartbreak. They were supposed to get married. He wasn't supposed to just sit here alone, pouring his soul out through hardened turquoise. He was supposed to get up, to follow Yuuri into that room and fight for  _them_. 

So why was he sitting here, feeling so unfathomably fragile with his heart ripped clean from his chest? Why wasn't he moving? Why wasn't he fighting?

No, there was a simple answer. He had no part of himself left to give. In the end, he hadn't been enough. 

This was it. Supernova—the end. Two dead stars, and two black holes left swallowing up their wake.

 

* * *

 _So it's another late night out here in California,  
_ _And I'm, I’m burying my pain into somebody else_

* * *

 

It felt wrong. It felt so, so wrong—laying in this bed, staring at the face of a sleeping stranger curled into Yuuri’s pillow. He felt sick, his stomach twisted into thick, tight knots and his chest so, so achingly hollow even now, months after returning from the tour in Europe and Asia. There was no afterglow, no sense of satisfaction; there was only pain, guilt, and longing.

And it was bitter, that revelation. They'd gone out to celebrate the release of their latest album last night. The joy was extremely short lived—so many of those songs had been soul bearing to the point where he'd had to stop recording to excuse himself, splashing water on his face to eradicate the evidence of pearlescent saline carving warm trails down his cheeks. It was supposed to be freeing, supposed to be a weight lifted. He wasn't supposed to drink himself stupid and take someone home in a moment of weakness. He felt pathetic.

Despite knowing better, he allowed himself to indulge in remembrance of what Yuuri had looked like curled into that pillow, ring on his finger glinting with the filtered light of the morning sun. He remembered the happiness he felt with his fingers carding reverently through mussed black hair, how Yuuri would wake up in the morning and look so, so dreadfully cranky and so, so adorable. He remembered those first few months of morning coffee and passion, of singing and dancing, of the childlike giddiness of new lovers. He remembered waking up in a hotel room in Chicago. He remembered an airport in New York. He felt his throat constricting even as the ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. He tried to swallow the thickness clinging to his airway, tried to press the image from his mind, to no avail.

God damn, he needed a smoke.

As gently and quietly as possible, he slid himself out from under the covers and slipped out onto the balcony with his phone and pack in hand. The silhouette of his once upon a time leaned against the rail, staring out at the city lights in fascination. A tinkering laugh echoed off of the walls, its ghost haunting him indefinitely. It was nice out this morning, a gentle breeze rolling through as the sun peeked over the horizon. Yuuri would be looking at a dark sky now. He wondered if he, too, had someone sneaking into his bed.

He had to push that thought away immediately. He was quickly becoming sick to his stomach again. Nimble fingers worked open the pack of cigarettes, a habit he’d gone back to damn near the minute Yuuri broke up with him, and he slid out a lighter and his poison. He could hear the joking chide of a lover lost, ' _Those things will kill you, you know. I'd like you to live to see our wedding day._ '

A sad smile. He'd never put much thought into marriage before the proposal. His eyes fell to the ring on his right hand, a simple golden band that he hadn't had the strength to transfer from his left for months following the initial devastation. He snorted, remembering how Yakov had threatened to pawn it if he couldn't get his wits about him. A thumb idly drug over the cool metal.

Without much else to do so early in the morning with some undressed, nameless clubgoer passed out and sprawled over half of his mattress, he pulled out his phone and pulled up Instagram. Phichit, Yuuri’s best friend, was already hard at work posting several catalog-worthy glamour shots in rapid succession, which he managed to like as he scrolled. They'd kept in touch, remarkably, but Phichit didn't tell him anything about Yuuri. Viktor didn't ask him to, either. Their last conversation had been a congratulations on the new album, and a list of the dancer's new favorite songs. The fact that they were about Yuuri went unspoken by both parties.

He came across a post and stopped, his heart sinking as he took an all too long drag of his cigarette.

 

* * *

 _And now you're back at home living with your mama  
_ _Got my first record sitting on your shelf_

* * *

 

 

It was Yuuri, sitting and smiling softly with his older sister, who had an arm slung around his shoulder. The caption was in Japanese, something he'd never learned how to read despite picking up a few phrases here and there from Yuuri’s mutterings.

“それは本当か、ただの夢でした?” He had half the mind to Google it.

In the background, a book case with a separate shelf for music, and the unmistakable art of the band’s first album—their EP, before the release of their official studio album—propped up proudly against the neat row of CDs and vinyl.

He swallowed, tears pricking at his lower lids as he sighed and shook his head. His finger hovered over the ‘like’ button, but he ultimately decided against it.

“He probably didn't even realize.”

**Author's Note:**

> それは本当か、ただの夢でした? = Is supposed to be "Was it real or just a dream?", but Google Translate is Google Translate, so who really knows. Let's just say I translated from English, and then when I put the phrase back through from Japanese to English... That's not how it translated. Pretend for me. I'm sorry to anyone who speaks Japanese also.
> 
> *coughs* um? I can explain??
> 
> Wowow I hope you knew what you were getting into when you read this because I had no idea what I was getting into when I wrote it. I've been working on this on and off for like a month because it's a mood thing. File under: this should have been a full length story but I am a piece of shit


End file.
